Past readers will know that I was blown away by Islington’s initial entry into The Licanius Trilogy, The Shadow of What Was Lost. It currently occupies one of the few spots in my “mandatory reading” category, and I’ve been salivating about book two for months now.

Part of what made Islington’s debut novel so surprising is that it was originally self-published. The fact that I didn’t realize that until after finishing the book should give you some indication of the book’s quality- this was a polished work, free from a lot of the clunkiness that typically comes with early drafts. And though Islington was obviously drawing heavily from the Wheel of Time series (among others), I never got the feeling that he was writing fan fiction, only that he was inspired by the same stories that I love.

Now for the more difficult part: I have to say that I didn’t love book two. Did I like it? Yes! Did I like it a lot? Yes! But I can’t quite bring myself to give it the coveted “mandatory reading” status.

Things I liked about book two *no spoilers*:

the writing continues to be solid

Islington has built a fascinating world, and the magic system is complex but nuanced

the continuing reveals about Caedan’s past are entertaining

the development of Davian and Asha’s characters and powers is satisfying,

the ongoing questions about whether our heroes are doing the right thing

the sense that even the putative villains might have understandable motivations, and that we as readers might not fully understand what’s going on

Things I didn’t like about book two *minor spoilers*:

In hindsight, I wish I had re-read book one before jumping into book two. I had some trouble recalling the specifics of what was going on, in part because some characters have multiple names, and because a significant portion of the book centers on Caedan regaining piecemeal memories from years (or millennia) earlier.

Similarly, I had some trouble with the timeline of events. For instance, it seems that no-one can remember the details of the war that occurred just a few decades before the book is set. Some of that is explained away using magic, but it still rubbed me the wrong way.

I think Islington leans a little too hard on the trope of “authority figures don’t appreciate the coming threat” (and yes, I realize that our own leaders are ignoring the coming climate apocalypse, so this isn’t really that far-fetched). In particular, I found myself legitimately angry with how stupidly Wirr’s mother acts in the book.

I’m still a little lukewarm on readers being led to sympathize with Davian’s sense of morality. There’s an important scene where he decides not to kill someone, and I’ll just say that it’s not at all clear to me (even as a pacifist-type) that this was the moral choice.

So ok, I had some quibbles. Overall, I still found it to be a very enjoyable book, and I’ll still happily pre-order book three. In the meantime, I’m going to leave book one in the “mandatory reading” category, while inserting this second entry one step below. Depending on how the series unfolds, I could see myself nudging the whole series into one category or the other, but for now, I’ll wait and see.

Child of the Daystar is the first entry into The Wings of War series. It introduces readers to the story of Raz i’Syrul, a sort of humanoid dragon, who is captured by slavers early in his life, and is subsequently raised by a kindly group of nomads. After a series of unfortunate events, we then witness Raz’s rise to fame (infamy?), in which he becomes a badass mercenary/gladiator type (hey, wouldn’t you, if you were a 7-foot tall dragon dude?).

This is one of those books that I felt conflicted about while reading. It’s not exactly young adult, insofar as there is plenty of combat, viscera, etc. But it does have the sort of cadence that I’ve come to associate with YA fantasy literature (similar to Red Rising, The Hunger Games, etc.), and there were times throughout the book when I thought about putting it down (mostly in the first half). But I never quite did, and when all was said and done, I think I’ll probably pick up the sequels at some point (I know, I know, I’m damning it with faint praise). O’Connor has a strong hand with the action sequences, and I appreciated how Raz’s dark side helped to flesh out his character. I will dock a few points for the bad guys being transparently evil, but I suppose there are straight-up demonic slaver-types still around in the world today, so it’s not that much of a reach.

The amazon reviews for books two and three of the series look positive, so hopefully that’s an indication that the series grows stronger as it progresses. At the very least, book one was a relatively quick and entertaining read. I’ll gladly designate it as “guilty pleasure” reading; if you’re looking for for a drink that goes down easy, and like combat-filled fantasy, this isn’t a bad choice!

1/22/18 Editor’s Note: this book was initially given a rating of “2 – Guilty Pleasure.” As part of the blog redesign, all ratings of “Guilty Pleasure” have since been revised to “Recommended with Reservations.”

I reviewed the first “Black Company” omnibus back on June 13, and *spoiler alert* I loved it. This is a dark, gritty series in which there aren’t always clear lines between hero and villain, and I’ve lapped it up. The series’ first book was published in 1984, so while I’m tempted to compare the book’s grittiness and real politik to the more popular A Song of Ice and Fire, the truth is that Cook’s opus predates GRRM’s (A Game of Thrones was published in 1996).

It’s very difficult to review the series’ second omnibus, The Books of the South, without offering major spoilers. Cook shares GRRM’s propensity for killing off heroes and villains alike, so even knowing what characters remain by the outset of the second omnibus would reveal key plot points about the earlier books. With that in mind, I’m going to opt to just provide some general thoughts, rather than risk any unintentional reveals.

Sticking with the general remarks: Cook’s short, choppy prose has an old-school feel to it, but part of what I find remarkable about these books is that they seem so timeless. If someone had introduced me to the books, and told me they had just been published, I would have had no reason to think otherwise. Some of that dynamic is no doubt due to the centrality of war in the narrative (after all, in the immortal words of Fallout 4 “War, war never changes”). Cook himself served in the US Navy, and his writings are imbued with the kind of weariness and fatalism that I imagine must come naturally to those who have worn the uniform.

People reading this review will presumably fall into two camps: either you have, or you have not, read the previous collection of stories. If you haven’t, I’ll repeat my exhortations from the prior review: if you like war stories, the dark and dour, and shades of grey in the moral spectrum, then I can’t recommend these books highly enough. If you prefer stories in which the good guys can be counted on to survive and prosper, these are not the books for you. Proceed accordingly.

Assuming you read the first omnibus and enjoy it, embark upon the second with confidence. It takes a little while to get going, and there are definitely some parts that ring hollow (I didn’t care for the use of the narrator for the second book, in particular, and the third book seems out of place), but overall, I was more than willing to go along for the ride.

So I’ve taken a mini-break from fantasy/sci-fi in order to read some nonfiction (I’m currently enjoying re-reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for the umpteenth time). But never fear! I have a deep repository of past reads to draw from, so the blog shall march on.

I picked up The Inheritance Trilogy last November, after coming across it in a bookstore in Asheville, NC. At almost 1500 pages, it passed my “Sir Mix-A-Lot” test, and so ended up coming home with me. As the title would imply, the this is actually a collection of three books in one: The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, The Broken Kingdoms, and The Kingdom of the Gods. The first book introduces us to the city of Sky, the center of the kingdom, which is run by a ruling family who (I’m oversimplifying here) have managed to subjugate the gods who created the world. Our initial protagonist, Yeine, is summoned to Sky from her more rural home, where she is plunged into political machinations, as well as the internecine drama of the gods. Throughout the later books, readers are further introduced to the history which has led to the gods’ downfall, which involves a heavy dose of self-imposed punishment and penance.

I think the word that really resonates with me when I think of this trilogy is “original.” Perhaps not so much in the source material (Jemisin clearly draws on worldly religious traditions and lore), but certainly in the execution and the framing. This is indeed a work of “fantasy,” but one that doesn’t share much similarity to the epics of Jordan, Martin, etc. Instead, we’re treated to a more slow moving, character-based drama. Much of the conflict in the books arises as a result of one character’s determination to do X, even when X is going to make their life more difficult, etc. There’s a dream-like quality to much of the plot, but the story moves along at a brisk enough pace to avoid losing the reader’s interest (most of the time).

I hedge a little on the “most of the time,” because I think the trilogy does lose some steam as it progresses. The first book, IMHO, is the best: we’re still so new to the situation that each new piece of information feels important, and by showing us the city of Sky through Yeine (who is not familiar with it), Jemisin gives herself an easy method of slowly revealing the larger story to us. I still enjoyed book two quite a bit, though it seemed to get a little bogged down in the relationship between some of the primary gods (though to be fair, their relationship is kind of the crux of the story). By book three, I felt like things had slowed down considerably, and my interest definitely waned.

To recap: this is a long, dreamy fantasy trilogy that is a significant step away from more traditional fantasy world-building. The conflict tends to be emotional and interpersonal – there’s little explicit combat. Instead, Jemisin poses a whole new set of questions: what would it mean to fall in love with a god? What would it be like to be a mortal, made into a god? What about being a god, made into a mortal? How would one cope?

If those sorts of questions interest you, give this a shot. If your tastes run more towards “swords and sorcery,” you may want to give this one a pass.

I started reading The Martian in 2013, having heard that it had been picked up for what would become the 2015 movie starring Matt Damon (if you haven’t seen the movie, you should, but read the book first!). While being optioned for a movie may not always been a guarantee of quality, in this case someone in Hollywood made the right call, because this is a special book.

The plot is a fairly straightforward one: in the not too distant future, a group of American astronauts become the first humans to walk the surface of Mars. Via a series of unfortunate accidents, team botanist Mark Watney is injured on the planet surface, leading the rest of the team to presume him dead. Now stranded and alone on an inhospitable planet, Watney is challenged to survive long enough to allow someone, anyone, to attempt to perform some kind of rescue.

The Martian ends up being a remarkable story because of the author’s ability to blend two unlikely themes: science and what might be called “heart.” This is very much a “hard science” book — Weir has done meticulous research on what methods and items would be available to someone in Watney’s situation, and quite a bit of the book comes down to Watney musing about technology and biology. However, Weir never loses sight of the fact that the real pulse of story is the degree to which a reader cares about Watney himself, and goes out of his way to make Watney a humorous and relatable protagonist. Make no mistake, this is a funny book, and not just by the normally dour standards of science fiction.

The second half of the book zooms out to incorporate more characters back on Earth, as people in NASA-like agencies work to try to improve Watney’s chances of survival. These interactions can admittedly get a little cheesy (especially in the movie version), and yet, I don’t think I would have it any other way. There’s a lot of gritty, dark writing out there, much of which I love dearly, but there’s also something to be said for an old-fashioned “humanity bands together” story. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself shedding a manly tear or two on the subway.

There are very few people to whom I wouldn’t recommend this book. Maybe if you really, really hate potatoes? (You’ll get it when you read the book.) If you’ve been meaning to get around to reading it, let this be your kick in the pants!

This review includes information about books one, two and three of the Cradle series.

Book One

I picked up Unsouled with a bit of trepidation, as my only other encounter with Will Wight’s writing (try saying that 3 times fast!) came via his Traveler’s Gate trilogy, which I started but didn’t finish. The Cradle series, like the Traveler’s Gate trilogy, leans heavily on that hoary old fantasy trope of a seemingly unremarkable young person, who ends up being a future ubermensch, etc. etc. As I’ve written before, I don’t mind the trope- some authors use it at a jumping off point for a compelling story, while other times the story never really transcends the trope. For me, the question becomes whether the characters develop in interesting ways, and whether the world broadens out in a satisfying way. I didn’t get that feeling from Wight’s House of Blades, though perhaps I’ll need to give it another try, because I did end up enjoying Unsouled quite a bit.

The “unsouled” in question is Wei Shi Lindon, born into a community where young people typically manifest one of four specific “soul talents,” which allow them to gain greater power, provide greater utility to their people, and to assume greater social status. Lindon, however, appears to be “unsouled,” meaning that his path to making something of himself appears to be cut off before it begins. However, as a canny reader may guess, fate intervenes (in the form of an incredibly advanced celestial being), leading Lindon to leave his village and begin his transformation into something far beyond his original dreams or expectations.

Again, as a premise, you’ve probably heard this before, and there are plenty of pitfalls for Wight to navigate. I developed a quick fondness for Lindon, but was less interested in the specifics of the four schools of talents, so was relieved that Wight didn’t spend large chunks of the book belaboring the magic system. And while this review is specific to book one of the series, in the interest of full disclosure I’ll note that I’m currently finishing up book three, and have been encouraged by how the story continues to adapt in the subsequent books.

To sum up: Unsouled is a classic fantasy bildungsroman. It’s heavy on plot, and relatively light on character development (Lindon gets good treatment, but most of the other characters end up being pretty two dimensional). It’s a relatively simple and quick read, so would make good beach reading fodder. It also has the advantage of being free on the Kindle library (if that’s your reading method of choice), and one can speed-read it with confidence knowing that books two and three are available for future consumption. High literature, this isn’t, but it’s a satisfying portion for a fantasy glutton like me.

Rating: 2- Recommended with Reservations

Books Two and Three

I’ve noticed a strange phenomena since transitioning from reading hardcopy books to reading mostly via my Kindle, which is that:

A) I’m less apt to remember the names of the books I’m reading (presumably because I don’t look at the book cover every time I open it up), and

B) when I read multiple books in a series one after another, the books tend to merge together, whereas with hardcopy books, the delineations between books seemed much more stark.

With that in mind, I just inhaled books two and three of Will Wight’s “Cradle” series without taking much of a breath, and so it seems to make more sense to just review them together, rather than attempting to tease them apart. Reader’s of last week’s review of book one, Unsouled, will recall that the series follows Wei Shi Lindon, a young man who initially seemed handicapped by his lack of a “soul,” but who (of course) turns out to far more capable than anyone ever dreamed, the chosen one, etc. etc. It’s a hackneyed premise, but Wight’s opening novel kept my attention, and the story only improves over books two and three.

As book two opens, Lindon has left the relative safety of his ancestral community, and travels with his newfound companion and (sort of) mentor, the talented but terse sword artist Yerin. Faced with the wider world, Lindon quickly realizes how myopic his home community’s perspective is (both on the topics of “soul abilities,” and in other respects). With his new perspective comes new goals, as Lindon continually pushes to develop himself and embrace the destiny that was (partly) revealed to him in book one. Along the way, Lindon and Yerin accumulate antagonists and friends, the most memorable of whom is the mysterious Eithan, whose humor and confidence quickly endear himself to the reader.

When he’s not writing books, Will Wight is also a creator of board games, and the Cradle series owes a lot of its appeal to the notion of “character progression” codified in both board game and video game lore. Much of the series’ (if not all of it, frankly) is driven by Lindon’s quest for continuous improvement, and the most satisfying passages in the books typically revolve around Lindon “leveling up” (in video game parlance) at crucial times. If that sort of “character development” appeals to you, you’ll likely enjoy the series quite a bit. If that concept turns you off, Cradle may not be for you.

By the end of book three, the story arc continues to develop in interesting ways, and I’m eager to see what book four holds. The danger with this sort of story is that by continuing to raise the bar on what is possible (and how powerful any given individual can be), the author backs themselves into a corner, as the only way to challenge a super-humanly powerful protagonist is by introducing a villain who is somehow even more capable (but not so much that the hero can’t figure out some clever way to defeat them!). We haven’t seen that villain yet, though Wight has sketched out some possibilities that will no doubt be revealed in future books.

To sum up: the Cradle series is standard fantasy fare, with a heavy dollop of video-game like character progression mixed in. The books are quick, easy reads- perfect for a summer day at the beach, mountains, or what have you. This isn’t high literature, and Wight tends to gloss over anything that might distract from the core of the story (there are something like 6 significant characters by the end of book three). With that said, these are satisfying reads, and I’ll download book four as soon as it comes out.

In most book series, and particularly in the sci-fi/fantasy genres, the narrative universe tends to grow and expand with each new book. It’s a rare series that narrows in focus over time, and off the top of my head, I can’t recall another sci-fi “space opera” type that fits that descriptor, with the notable exception of Leckie’s Imperial Radch series, which concludes with Ancillary Mercy.

As blog readers will recall, I found the series’ initial installment, Ancillary Justice, to be a show-stopper. I loved the flashbacks to Breq’s former existence as a multi-bodied AI, and found the universe of the Radch to be both mysterious and intriguing. Like many other authors before her, however, Leckie seemed to struggle a bit with the “middle” book of the series (Ancillary Sword) which seemed a bit slow and myopic compared to book one.

Book three picks up just where book two had left off, with Breq continuing to try to maintain control of the Athoek system, and opposing the machinations of the many-bodied ruler of the Radch, Anaander Mianaai. But like book two, much of the actual narrative of the book is devoted to Breq’s relationships, both to the members of her crew, and to the inhabitants of Athoek. (I notice that one of the prominent Amazon reviews refers to the book as being more “soap opera” than “space opera,” and I’m inclined to agree.) While I’m not normally a fan of that kind of narrative (it’s part of what I didn’t love about Cherryh’s Morgaine books), I think Leckie does an admirable job of tugging on the readers’ sympathies. Even as the pace slowed in books two and three, I found myself rooting hard for Breq, even as I occasionally reminded myself that Breq was an android (sort of).

Unfortunately, while the narrowing of scope does allow for some increased attention on the characters’ emotional state, it doesn’t help with the overall arc of the story, which seems underdeveloped. As in book two, Ancillary Mercy’s conclusion seems rushed and unsatisfying, and I thought Leckie’s resolution re. Anaander Mianaai felt forced. Don’t get me wrong, this is a good book, but it suffers in comparison to book one, which is unfortunate.

Final analysis: if you’ve gotten through book two, by all means, finish the series. Though I thought books two and three represented a step down from the start of the series, I was never tempted to stop reading, and I would happily read future stories about the Radch. If you don’t mind a little “soap opera” mixed in with your “space opera,” this could be the series for you!